As I watched the soft red glow of my cell phone slowly curling to the depths of Kodiak Harbor, I curiously found myself feeling about as placid as the water itself. And I felt good about that, pleased with myself in a rebellious-freedom-satisfaction-type-of-way. Then I thought that it also meant that I had no one important or special enough in my life that I should feel distressed about not being able to conveniently speak with for the foreseeable future, and a mild depression settled into my chest with a considerable thunk. I always try to flip the coin. Sometimes I wish I didn't, but it does help keep a guy in check. Anyway, the tendering season is over, and I've agreed to help Craig with shipyard work as he prepares the Providence for fishing the cod season. He asked me if I want to fish with him, and I said that I was expecting to have a prior engagement. I prefer the winter weather in Florida, or at least somewhere south of the Mason-Dixon line. He told me how much money I was leaving on the table. I told him I was traveling in New Zealand one time when it started to get a little chilly, I cut my trip three weeks short and left the country. My hyper-aversion to frost, snow, ice, etc. astonishes some people, seeming rather infantile I reckon. I stand by my belief that life is too short to spend cold. But for now we're off to Homer to haul the boat out, pull the props, shafts, cutlass bearings, clean and paint the bottom, weld some doublers, blah, blah, blah. The original plan was to travel to Seward for this mission, which would have been nice since I've already done Homer. But Craig changes his mind with the tides. His voice and mannerisms remain composed, but I've come to think that they decorate a roiling infrastructure. Craig does quite a bit of stream-of-consciousness talking and easily backtracks on his own sentences: "In Seward we'll get hauled out and get a first-rate job done. You can't let the boat fall apart underneath you. It'll cost more and we'll miss some fishing time, but I can't afford not to." "Yeah, well, every decision you make is going to involve some opportunity cost." "Right. But in Homer we could just beach the boat on the gravel bar, swap props, slap on some paint, and get fishing. You know, the boat doesn't make any money sitting on the rails. I've got to keep it fishing, I can't afford not to." "You could just retire and not worry about it at all." "Retire? No, this is what I do. There's this guy, though, that wants to buy this boat for $600,000 and it isn't every day you get a buyer like that come along. I better call him tonight." At this point I cease my attempts at helpfulness and humor. In this hurry-up-and-wait business the best plan often is no plan, but Craig appears to be dragging himself in too many directions at once. Every time we get to the dock he has some pressing matter to tend to in town, and has to hustle away. He often forgets something and has to backtrack his steps much the way he does his sentences. So I'm left to manage the unloading process at the cannery, pump and clean the holding tanks, reorganize the deck, and drive the boat across the harbor. Which isn't a problem, I'm glad to reduce the burden on Craig, and I was basically doing it myself even before the other deckhand left. Because Zack moves in one exclusive direction - his own. The last time we got the dock, Zack said, "The coffee shop just opened, let's go for breakfast." I stared at him, wondering how he could possibly disregard the four hours of work immediately in front of us. "No," I said. But apparently he thought I was referring only to myself with that answer, as the next time I turned around he was nowhere to be found. Backpack and skateboard, gone. Typical. I wouldn't care except that Zack and I are being paid the same wage and Craig, despite all of his complaints about the kid to me, continues to tolerate the behavior. And I continue to tolerate the complaining. From both sides. Zack makes Craig seem like a mute. He absolutely does not shut up, even when you clearly aren't listening to him. He contends that Craig does not treat him fairly or pay him adequately, laughable pleas to the objective observer. But Zack is on a mission to delude and dilute himself. These are the topics of his rambling: whiskey, bitches, tobacco, crime (mostly his own), vodka, jail, beer. When he's not rambling he's dedicated to myspace, or sometimes both at the same time. Zack is due back in Oregon soon to face sentencing on charges that may keep him locked up until his nineteenth birthday. He's a felon who can't even drive yet. He is also a vulnerable kid trying to find his way. I don't say too much to him, I'm trying to lead by example, don't smoke, don't drink, don't chew tobacco - deeds, not words, and all that. How much would he listen anyway? But when I do talk, I try to say meaningful things like, "Zack, the only question is if the things you're doing are making your life better, because you're the only person with the power to do that." He goes on about hating hangovers and all the different ways he knows how to make a bomb. I finally tell him that he is excruciatingly boring. He actually stops talking for a minute. Then he asks me if I ever got arrested. "No." "Did you ever do anything illegal?" "Yeah, plenty." "Well how is it that you don't get caught?" "You don't hear me talking about it, do ya!" I point out that he's been caught for everything he's ever done. He's only sixteen and already the worst criminal ever. That gets a chuckle. For all of his nonsense, the kid does make some interesting observations from time to time. He tried to buy a video game at the K-Mart but was denied because he isn't seventeen. But they did allow him to purchase a gas can and a Zippo. "Now how much more trouble do you think I'm going to get in with this than with that stupid game?" He tells me I don't have much longer to fool around, I better get married soon if I want to have kids. He, on the other hand, has all the time in the world. After he's done causing trouble - "maybe in two or ten years..." - he's considering the military, and/or starting his own business. I don't know what kind of chances he has, but I'm very interested to discover what happens to the kid down the road. Before he left, in a subdued moment, the kid asked me a rather poignant question: "Hey, Brad, what are you going to miss about me the most?" I have no idea what kind of value for him hinged on my answer. Maybe none. But it didn't seem right to say that I wouldn't miss anything about a person who I knew I wouldn't soon forget. I told him I'd miss the chance to get to know more about him. And that was good enough for both of us.